PROLOGUE
I came home early from my business trip on Christmas Eve, intending to surprise Jared.
The Seattle rain was freezing, a relentless sheet of ice that turned the city lights into a blur of grey and gold.
I barely felt the cold as I punched the code into the keypad of his penthouse condo, my heart fluttering with anticipation.
In my hand, I gripped the gift bag tightly, imagining the look on his face.
But when the lock clicked and the door swung open, the surprise was entirely on me.
The hallway lights were dimmed, casting long, intimate shadows across the entryway.
And there, bathed in that soft, golden glow, was Jared.
He wasn't alone.
Sasha Miel was straddling him on the entryway bench, her knees pinned on either side of his hips.
She was wearing a "sexy reindeer" costume that left nothing to the imagination—cheap red velvet cutting high across her thighs, white faux fur clinging to her chest.
They weren't just kissing.
They were devouring each other.
I stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight.
I watched Jared’s large hands grip her bare waist, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as if he owned her.
I watched Sasha arch her back, grinding down into his lap, a low, breathy moan escaping her throat as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him deeper.
The sound of wet, open-mouthed kisses filled the silence of the apartment—slurping, hungry, desperate noises that made my stomach churn.
They were so lost in their heat, so wrapped up in the friction of their bodies, that they didn't even hear the door open.
The damp chill from outside swept in, seeping into my bones, but the scene in front of me burned like acid.
I forced myself to breathe, forced my lungs to expand against the crushing weight in my chest.
"What exactly..." My voice cracked, then hardened. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
They broke apart, gasping.
A string of saliva connected their lips for a brief, humiliating second before snapping.
Jared looked up, his face flushed, his lips swollen and slick.
There was no guilt in his eyes.
No panic.
Just a frown of annoyance, as if I were a waiter interrupting a fine meal.
Sasha didn't scramble off. She moved slowly, deliberately, smoothing her costume down with a smirk.
"Look at yourself, Eden," Jared said, his voice rough, still breathless from the make-out session.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze dripping with condescension.
"You're making a scene. Sasha and I are just celebrating Christmas. In Europe, a kiss is just a greeting. It's polite."
He adjusted his shirt, covering the red marks on his neck, looking at me with that self-righteous expression I knew so well.
"Stop being so provincial."
Staring at his face, at the raw, undeniable evidence of his lust still lingering in the air, I felt something inside me die.
The last lingering warmth of the love I had held for him for four years didn't just fade.
It was extinguished.
Like a candle in a storm.
At that moment, standing in the entryway of the home I kept for him, watching his chest heave from kissing another woman, I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I just watched him justify his betrayal with the arrogance of a man who thought he was untouchable.
Months later, when I was in someone else's arms—a man who worshipped every inch of me—I would watch Jared break down on the sidelines like a madman.
But by then, it would be far too late.
